


Just Wanna Hanky Panky

by jazzypizzaz



Series: touched for the very first time [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Shapeshifting, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 15:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13103253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzypizzaz/pseuds/jazzypizzaz
Summary: Quark finds a new pair of trousers in his room and puts them on.  He's in for quite a surprise...





	Just Wanna Hanky Panky

**Author's Note:**

> Song title is Madonna of course, to be consistent with the series. ^_^ [I can imagine Quark saying all of this...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AFSx9fE1qJ8)

Quark steps out from his shower to find a pair of neatly pressed trousers resting on his bed.  He whips his head back and forth, clutching the bathrobe around his naked form.  No sign nor sound of an intruder, which means… hmmm...

 

A notecard on top of the pants catches Quark's eye -- printed on it are the words “To Quark”.

 

Quark snorts.  “Who else would they be for, they’re in _my_ quarters.”   _Finders keepers_ wasn’t a Rule of Acquisition, but close enough.  “The question is… _who_ left them.”

 

And the only one sneaky enough, and boring enough to write that blunt salutation on the gift tag, would be Odo.  Far be it from Quark to question Odo’s assimilation of human values... or rather, not when it results in free stuff for Quark.

 

Quark fingers the seams for a moment, then picks up the pants and shakes them out.   The legs unfold unnaturally slow, the fabric shimmering a little.  

 

“Ooohhh.  I’m not familiar with this material, but it looks _expensive_ ,” Quark gasps.  Then he frowns and looks around, before saying in an overly loud voice for any nearby lurkers to hear, “But the legs look small.  Doesn’t matter how much you paid if the cut is unflattering.”

 

Quark squints at an odd -- or perhaps an end -- on his shelf of knicknacks, not sure if he remembers buying that one.  Then he shrugs and drops the bathrobe.  Nothing Odo hasn't seen before, if he's spying from within the quarters.  

 

Quark inserts a leg into the pants.  Just as he suspected, they _are_ too small, and he hops around for a moment before they slide right on.

 

“The dingy brown is uninspiring, not that I’d expect any less from you, but at least it isn’t _beige_...” Quark says, admiring his profile in the mirror.  He lets out a low whistle.  Despite the initial trouble, they fit perfectly.  They’re adequately padded in the generous midsection, as is fashionable for the Ferengi flaunting his surplus, while clinging to his thin calves.  “Yeah, that’ll do.”

 

\---

 

Quark walks down to the Promenade with a renewed spring in his step.  The cloth is smooth as bog slime on his legs, luxurious, slipping and sliding as he moves, and he feels like a million bars of latinum.

 

Humming a bit to himself as he opens the bar for business, the very air seems to glint with the promise of profit.

 

“Goood morning,” Quark sings to Morn, setting down his regular foot-high stack of groat cakes.  Morn raises a pebbly eye ridge, perplexed at Quark’s good mood.

 

“You’re right!” Quark says.  “I forgot the squill sauce.”

 

He bends down to look underneath the counter, and as he does the pants adjust by stretching across his backside, clinging to his form in a way fabric shouldn’t.

 

“Aahh,” Quark gasps.  Strange.  

 

The squill sauce stock has been pushed to the back however, so Quark has to stretch further down.  The pants slide along his skin, slick into his crack as if they were Risian leggings.  Quark gropes around his butt to check for the appearance of a wedgie -- what _is_ this fabric?! -- but it’s smooth on the outside.  He hastily grabs the sauce and stands up, only to meet a wrinkly ugly face only a couple inches away -- Morn has bent across the counter to see what Quark was up to down there.  

 

Quark scowls and pushes Morn back into his stool.  “Oh stop gawking and eat your cakes.  They’re getting cold.”

 

Now that Quark is upright again, however, the fabric hasn’t readjusted the same.  It clings not only to his backside, but to his front as well -- though it looks normal from an external view -- cradling his, ahem, _downstairs_ bits in what seems like a very intentional caress.   Quark gulps -- these could be dangerous.  As he heads off to the next customer, the fabric continues to cup his crotch, delicately, lovingly.

 

“Odo, I don’t know what your game is, giving me these,” Quark mutters to himself, making a mental note as he pours and assembles breakfasts.  “But I have to find out what they're made of…   _Quark’s Self-Stroking Lingerie,_  has a nice ring to it -- do you think Garak would mind the competition?”

 

The continual pressure on his sensitive parts is a bit distracting, but Quark manages to serve up the morning crowd without too much trouble.  In fact, the deviousness of the trousers might be helping him, adding a bit of zip to his interactions.  Another unofficial Rule of Acquisition is that a bit of flirtation with the customer never hurts, and his current situation is making that even easier than usual.

 

“Hello hello,” Quark coos to a pair of crusty old Ferengi at a back table.  He sets down their order of toasted swamp roaches in front of them.  The pressure of the pants around his parts starts to vary -- subtly enough that Quark might be imagining it -- and it leaves him a bit breathless.  “I don’t believe I’ve met these fine lobes before.  What brings you to these parts?”

 

“Business, of course.”  The one with the saggier wrinkles says.

 

“Aah --hh, yes,” Quark says.  Softer, harder, then softer -- the inside of the pants loosen then clench around him.  “The greatest pleasure.”

 

Both Ferengi smirk at him.  Quark smiles.  “And what kind of business might that -- ” he starts, but cuts off as a smooth finger strokes down his lobes.  “Oh!”  He jumps about a foot to the side, startled into thinking this is another strange “feature” of the trousers.

 

“Relax, it’s me,” says a smooth sultry voice, and Quark whips around to see [ Rionoj ](http://memory-alpha.wikia.com/g00/wiki/Rionoj?i10c.encReferrer=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuZ29vZ2xlLmNvbS8%3D&i10c.ua=1), the purple-haired Boslican freighter captain, skulking behind him.  “I see you’ve met my esteemed associates.”

 

“My my do you look lovelier than ever!”  Quark grins, meaning every word as he drinks in her swaggering powerful form.  He runs a single finger down his tingling lobe.  She smirks at his attention.  

 

Suddenly, the pants clench around Quark again, then a portion slides further in between his cheeks to press right against the sensitive nerves of his, ahem, entrance.  Quark gasps and hastily looks away from her back to the Ferengi.  “Ahh- associates?  I didn’t catch your n-ah!-names.  I’m Quark, proprietor of this establishment.”

 

The one with the crustier warts snickers at him.  “You must not be getting enough oo-mox if one stroke is all it takes for a reaction like that.  What do you think, Plak?”

 

“I think you’re right, Yurk.  Not sure if we can trust such an inexperienced business partner.”  The saggier one, Plak, peers at Quark with eyes like beady flea beetles.

 

The inside of the pants began stroking back and forth over Quark’s, well, you know, and his nerves fizzle with every movement.  

 

Despite the physical distraction, his brain doesn’t stop ticking however.  What did Odo expect to gain from this gift?  Clearly, he was intending to distract Quark enough to get him to fumble any shady dealings, but there were simpler, less underhanded, ways for Odo to do that… unless…

 

Quark squints down at the pants.  Now that he’s concentrating, he can hear the distinctive faint goo sounds, though Odo must have been practicing how to muffle them.

 

“Odo…?” Quark murmurs, needing to make sure.

 

“The constable,” Rionoj says looking around the bar.  “Is he here?”

 

Quick as a blink, a pair of familiar sunken eyes form on Quark's knee, wink, then disappear before anyone else notices.

 

Quark gulps and shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak just yet.  

 

“He’s nervous as a lobeling at his first apprenticeship,” Plak whines.  “I doubt he has the lobes for this.”

 

“Boys, boys, now what did I say” Rionoj says.  She steps around Quark to sit at the table with the two Ferengi, on a bench seat against the wall.  “Quark will be quite helpful.”

 

“For -- for the right price of course.” Quark manages not to stutter too much.  The pants have now started fondling his genital folds, caressing each petal in turn.

 

Quark could turn around right now -- change into real pants in his quarters, tell off Odo for trying such a trick (maybe make out a bit, because Quark’s quite hot and bothered by this point), and than later when he’s sure Odo is otherwise occupied send a discreet message to Rionoj to meet up.

 

He _could_ do that, and probably should, but what if, instead, Quark calls Odo’s bluff?

 

“Of course,” Rionoj says.  She pats an empty place on the bench seat beside her.  “Sit down, and we can talk.  We only have a short window of time, it’s now or never.”

 

So there's no calling up Rionoi later, that settles it.  Quark’s never one to turn down the immediacy of a business opportunity, and _especially_ not an erotic one.   _A slug in the hand is worth two in the muck; but all three is even better_ \-- Rule #216.  Caution and prudence are for the weak-lobed; right now Quark could walk out ahead on both fronts, so long as he plays his hand right.  In this situation perhaps _Quark_ is the one with the advantage.

 

Plus, Quark doesn’t want to discourage Odo from fulfilling one of Quark’s many many erotic fantasies about the shapeshifter.  Far from it.

 

Quark sits down.

 

He does so gingerly, bracing himself against the back of the bench as he lowers his butt.  But, as he suspects they might, when he sits down completely the pants jut up harder against him, on the edge of penetration.  

 

“Your move,” Quark says, in an admirable attempt to sound in control of the situation.  “I’m listening.”

 

His heart pounds in his chest, in his stomach, in his groin.  

 

“How would you like all your wildest dreams to come true?” Rionoj murmurs into his ear.  Plak and Yurk grin toothily.

 

Quark panics for a moment, wondering how they knew about his Odo-pants, then shakes himself out of it.  Don’t be ridiculous, you’re losing it already!

 

“Oh, they already have.”  Quark winks at the two Ferengi.  “I’m sitting beside a beautiful clothed fe-male, and the tingle of opportunity in my lobes tells me I’m about to earn myself a ship full of latinum.”

 

His voice almost breaks on the last word, because while he talks, the pants have continued rubbing everywhere that matters down there.  The pants coax the folds into engorging, flush with the heat of the attention.  Quark adjusts in his seat.  This, he quickly realizes, is a mistake, since it allows greater pressure on his entrance, and now the smallest bit of Odo just breaches Quark’s rim.

 

Quark mops at his sweating brow.

 

“Don’t be hasty,” she says.  “Just relax with me, and these two will fill you in.”

 

“This lovely captain,” Yurk says, “has recently come into a large possession of a certain amber-colored crystal, restricted by most cultures… It’s been hard for her to move through normal circuits.”

 

“Yellow blowball?” Quark gasps in awe.  Yurk nods.  Odo holds still for a moment.  “Of course, the Federation restricts it, but Bajorans allow it in small quantities for religious purposes.  Still very risky though...”

 

“Something about a ritual involving their blasted orbs, yes.  See, we have a buyer, but we need a man on the inside.  Someone familiar with local customs --”

 

“Someone like you,” Rionoj coos.  She reaches up and runs a finger around the ridges of Quark’s lobes.  At the same time, Odo retreats then presses into his rim again.

 

It’s too much, far too much at once, and like the spiking graph of an upward stock market, electricity arcs through Quark's veins.

 

 Quark yelps and jumps up out of the seat. 

 

“Heh, heh.” Quark chuckles, tugging at his collar.  A trickle of sweat drips down the back of his neck.  “Perhaps, I shouldn’t --”

 

The pants at once loosen, the clingy parts retreating, and Quark, standing up in full view of everyone, grips at the waistband in fear that if they loosen any further they might fall down.

 

It occurs to Quark that he’s wearing nothing beneath, obviously, but also that Odo could slip off of his body at any time.  

 

Quark could be left in front of a clothed female and two male Ferengi, not to mention the whole bar, completely naked.

 

“See?  He’s getting cold lobes already,” Plak says.

 

Quark knows logically that Odo wouldn’t, that Odo knows the importance of humanoid etiquette, and that a primary tenet of most cultures involves offense at public nudity, especially Ferengi males.  (Or more reassuringly, that Odo would never aid in the breaching of one of the station laws he’s sworn to enforce.)

 

The small chance Odo would transgress a rule, however, and leave Quark to this unthinkable fate is enough to send a thrill of fear (of excitement) up Quark’s spine.  It also reminds Quark that this has always been part of the appeal of this fantasy, as loathe as he would be to ever admit it.

 

“What I meant was, that we shouldn’t uhh conduct business without a round of drinks,” Quark says.  He runs his tongue around his own dry mouth, then waves at Broik from across the room.  Broik, long-suffering underling that he is, will know that this gesture means a round of medium-priced Billowing Bogs brand slug juice.

 

“I still don’t know if I like this...” Yurk says as Quark sits back down, this time at a chair out of reach from Rionoj.

 

“Aw Quark, I don’t bite,” Rionoj says.  “We were just getting started.”

 

 _“Beware the man who doesn't make time for oo-mox_ , Rule --” Yurk starts.

 

“Rule two twenty three, I know, believe me,” Quark says.  

 

Quark squirms in his seat, hoping he’s not too obvious.  Odo is back to coaxing Quark’s genital petals to open, to teasing the rim of his entrance.  It doesn’t take much for Quark to thicken his tone with innuendo.  “I had quite a night last night if you know what I mean, my lobes are still sore.”  

 

Quark winks at them and tilts his head towards where three of his dabo girls are chatting, waiting for the lunch gamblers to show up.

 

Not that any of them would give him so much as a kiss to the forehead, if he wasn’t paying their salaries.  (And even then, rarely.)

 

As Odo plays with his opening folds, Quark can feel his dick everting out from beneath them.  It’s small, like a stubby thumb, but Quark checks the front of the pants anyway.  Luckily with the fashionable stomach padding on front, Odo has maintained discretion for Quark.

 

Plak licks his lips and flicks his saggy lobes.  Yurk grunts, begrudgingly impressed. (With the dabo girls.)

 

“I believe you were telling me about your plan, and how I can be of service?”  Quark says.  

 

Odo pulls on his dick, stroking his short length.  Quark’s breathing grows ragged and he tries desperately to control the sound.  His pulse is racing.  The Ferengi are old enough they probably can't hear very well, and Boslicans can see better than they hear.  Hopefully that's enough.

 

“We want to conduct the operation here on the station.  As a cover for our main seller, who is decidedly not a religious person, we’ll need several vedeks -- or people that without close scrutiny could pass as vedeks -- to pretend to buy the blowball for their congregations.”

 

As Plak speaks, Odo gathers the moisture now seeping from between Quark’s folds to up around his dick.  Quark’s entrance starts to relax with his arousal.  Odo rubs Quark’s goo around it also, coaxing it open.

 

“And we’ll need _you_ , Quark, to find these people and set up the station logistics.”  Yurk squints at Quark, who is pouring sweat.  Quark's face must be tangerine from heat.  “Unless you’re too nervous.”

 

From a waistcoat pocket, Quark whips out a small fan -- a blue-studded Bolian one, chic and expensive -- and begins to cool himself.  

 

Quark grins, shakily.  “Cardassian temperature controls, I must be in a hot spot.”

 

Odo slips inside Quark at once with a long thin tentacle.  Quark yelps, dropping the fan.

 

Plak raises a skeptical brow.  Rionoj gives him a strange look.

 

“Or - or it could be a medical condition.  Excuse me.  Nothing to worry about though.  Anway…?  How many vedeks, when do you want to do this?”

 

“Well, today would be best…”

 

As Plak and Yurk further detail their plan, Odo slips into and out of Quark in a lazy pace.  Quark refrains from squirming as best he can.  His face burns with embarrassment (in addition to arousal).  He does his best to look them each in the eye, trying to maintain cover from his own prohibited activities.

 

Quark tends to forget, as one of only a few Ferengi on an alien station, that unlike the many less discerning cultures with which he normally flirts, full penetration in Ferengi culture is a complete taboo.  

 

Especially for males.

 

Public oomox is a way of life, an indicator of how civilized and respectable Ferengi are (or should be regarded) as a species, but penetration is _unthinkable_.  How degrading!  And yet, here Quark is, trying to conduct wholesome virtuous business practices with several upstanding Ferengi citizens, and the tentacle up his butt is the only thing he can think about.

 

He would be less of a failure of a Ferengi, if this didn't feel so _good_.

 

“Sorry, which order of vedeks did you say works best?  And what was the hara-goat for?” Quark says, gasping a bit at the pleasure coursing through him.  He's having a difficult time concentrating on anything else.

 

“The Hendor order are the most prominent users of yellow blowball, and thus the best as cover.  They’re required to pardon a meat beast as a sacrifice before they can possess the crystal,” Yurk says, scratching a particularly crusty wart.

 

“I thought you said he knew Bajoran customs?”  Plak complains to Rionoj, who rolls her eyes.

 

“Of course!  Of course,” Quark says between clenched teeth.  He grips the table as Odo grows from the thin tentacle to a thicker one, stretching Quark around him.  “I was making sure _you_ knew.”

 

“Of course we know, we just told you!”

 

“Right.  Okay, shouldn’t be a problem, I can find the contacts.”  It’s risky, especially with Odo listening in to the whole plan, but Quark is in too deep now to back out.  (And perhaps Odo is too deep into Quark to be paying full attention.)  Quark is willing to bet that as long he stays in public view, Odo won’t cause a disturbance by leaving Quark naked.  “Now, let’s talk about my share of the profits.”

 

“Hmm.”  Yurk glances at Plak.  “We were thinking ten percent.”

 

Odo slides all the way out of Quark and pinches his butt, as if to say “that's all for now.”

 

“ _What_?  That’s hardly enough,” Quark yells, both at the Ferengi’s offer and at Odo’s threat to blue-lobe him.  

 

“Twelve.”

 

Odo thrusts back in all at once, thick enough that Quark isn’t sure he can take anymore.

 

“Guuh!”  Quark gulps.  Three sets of eyes peer back at him, and Quark has never felt so exposed.  It's humiliating, it's exhilarating.  “Uhh, I’m completely offended.  I’ll take no less than seventy percent!”

 

Odo thrusts again.  

 

“That’s ridiculous, the three of us have already done most of the work.  Fourteen, take it or leave it.”

 

“But you need me.  I’m in a very unique position--" Odo's tentacle reminds him how literal this is "-- _and_ I’m taking on most of the risk at this stage.”

 

The risk of exposing himself as a deviant, _and_ blowing the deal.

 

“Twenty percent.”

 

Quark’s skin is a furnace.  He’s boiling from the inside out.

 

“Sixty.”

 

In and out, in and out.  Sliiiiiiide.

 

“Twenty-five.”

 

Quark bites into his lip, delicious pain from the stretch mixing with pleasure erupting out from Odo’s touch through his every frayed nerve.  Good thing he sat away from Rionoj; if anyone touched his lobes right now, he’d surely fall apart.

 

Odo pounds into Quark, faster and faster.  The tentacle starts to lose form, so that it’s less a firm rod and more like a concentrated torrential river, rushing into and out of Quark.

 

“Fifty-five!  Fifty-two!  Forty-nine!  Or I walk away.”  

 

Quark shouts out numbers, only aware of the game enough to shout continually lower numbers, but with otherwise little strategy.

 

“Are you having some kind of fit, Quark?”  Rionoj says, with a raised eyebrow.  She’s concerned, but (Quark assumes) only insomuch as this might disrupt the deal.

 

“Forty-five percent!” Quark says. "That's it!  Right there!"

 

Yurk and Plak look at each other, appraising.

 

Quark’s internal stock market is peaking, shooting like Slug-o-cola stocks towards complete bliss.

 

“Thirty-three percent.”  Plak stares at Quark, but Quark barely hears his offer.

 

“Yes!”  Quark shouts.  Odo sloshes in one more time, and Quark convulses in his seat, riding out the waves of pleasure.  

 

Though Quark’s still biting his lip, a long whine slips through as he comes.

 

“ _Excuse_ me?”  Rionoj says.  

 

“What the frinx was that?” Plak looks horrified.

 

“Shhh!” Yurk hushes.  “You’re drawing attention!”

 

“I’m -- I’m --” Quark blinks a couple times, pulling himself up from the hazy pleasure clouding coherent thought.  “I’m excited about all the profits.  We had a deal?”

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” says a gravelly voice from beneath the table.  Odo’s head, stretched on a long neck, arcs out to glower at them all.  The rest of him remains as pants.  “You three are under arrest for conspiring to smuggle a controlled substance.”

 

At his orders, a couple deputies rush over to handcuff Yurk, Plak, and Rionoj.  As they drag them off, the three criminals yell at Quark:

 

“See if I ever deal with you again!”

 

“Traitor!”

 

“Snitch!”

 

Broik, only now having poured the slug juice to bring over, sets the tray back down at the bar and rolls his eyes.  The other surrounding customers watch the drama, them shrug and get back to their merriment.  It's not even the strangest thing that's happened in Quark's Bar this week.

 

Quark, feeling about as much of a puddle as his Changeling boyfriend ever is, droops down across the bench.  “Thanks for nothing, you freak!” he huffs at Odo’s craned head, but he can’t muster up enough indignance to be convincing.  “Now I’ll be blacklisted from the black market.”

 

“And good for you, because their seller had been planning to assassinate anyone involved after the exchange, to cover her tracks.”

 

“What?” A small stroke of terror flickers within Quark, but it can’t sustain with all the post-coital hormones.  With a winning grin, he leans forward to plant a sloppy smooch on Odo's mouth.  “Well, whew.  Guess I walk away scot free, right?”

 

“Hmph,”  Odo’s head says, looking all too smug.  “Of course not.  I’m arresting you for public indecency.”

 

“But!  But!”  Quark whines.  The Odo-pants force his legs to start walking towards the jail.  “That’s not fair!”

 

His protests soon die, however, when Odo instead locks them both in the security office and switches the glass windows to opaque.  He clasps a pair of handcuffs on Quark and eagerly melts over him for round two.  

 

Because Odo’s biggest fantasy, of course, is arresting Quark.

 

Quark, with a loud (performative) litany of complaints about the lost deal and how he can never show his face in the bar again, is only too happy to oblige.


End file.
